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Writer: Tiberius
Date Fri Sep 25 17:38:15 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: More Than One pt. 3
The precautions did not stop the next case.
Pell vomited over the rail during the morning ration.
Tiber saw him from where he sat with Corren and the others. The young sailor
stood near the starboard side, one hand gripping the rail and the other
pressed against his stomach. Another sailor passed behind him, laughed, and
said something Tiber couldn't hear.
Pell answered without looking up.
Whatever he said stopped the laughter.
Harl appeared several minutes later. He questioned Pell where he stood,
pressed a hand to his forehead, then examined his eyes. Pell endured it with
considerably less complaint than Tiber had come to expect from him.
"How long?"
"Since I woke up."
"Chills?"
Pell nodded.
"Vomited before now?"
"Once."
Harl's response came without hesitation. "Go below."
Pell straightened. "I've got watch."
"Not anymore."
"Talven'll have my hide."
"Then you can explain to him why I sent you."
Pell looked toward the quarterdeck - Talven was already watching. He pointed
toward the hatch.
Pell went.
Corren glanced after him. "He didn't complain."
"Not much."
Before midday, another prisoner in their compartment developed a fever.
Branik found him during the water ration. The man took his cup with both
hands and drank slowly. When he finished, Branik studied him.
"Look at me."
The prisoner raised his head.
Branik pressed the back of one hand against his forehead, then looked toward
the companionway. "Harl."
No answer came.
Branik pointed to the sailor carrying the buckets. "Find him."
Harl arrived carrying his leather case and a small cloth bundle Tiber hadn't
seen before.
He examined the man, asked the familiar questions, then opened the bundle.
Several smaller packets lay inside. Harl selected two, loosened their cords,
and measured dried leaves and strips of bark into a cup.
Branik watched. "You didn't give the others that."
"They didn't need it." Harl poured hot water into the cup.
"And he does?"
"His fever's higher."
That was all.
The man was moved forward. By afternoon, two more followed him.
One came from Tiber's compartment - the other was a sailor Tiber recognized
from the night watch. Neither had been among those Harl examined the day
before.
The forward store was filling.
Branik and Talven stopped near the hatch above him.
"Need more room."
"Already?"
"Unless you want them sleeping atop one another."
"How many?"
Branik gave him the number too quietly for Tiber to hear.
Talven was silent for several seconds. "I'll speak to the captain."
Talven left. Branik remained beside the hatch for a moment, watching him go,
then descended.
That evening, Harl came through Tiber's compartment again.
He asked the same questions as before: Fever. Chills. Nausea. Headache.
Whether anyone had vomited. Whether anyone had stopped eating.
This time, no one joked about it.
When Harl reached Tiber, he pressed a hand against his forehead.
"Anything?"
"No."
Harl moved to Corren.
"You?"
"Nothing worth reporting."
"Report it anyway."
Corren paused before answering. "...Nothing."
Harl checked him and moved on.
At every prisoner, Harl asked the questions again.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Sat Sep 26 17:43:46 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: What Doesn't Pass pt. 1
By the next morning, three more had fallen ill.
Tiber and Corren were taken above with four other prisoners to move bundled
sailcloth from the foredeck. A familiar sailor supervised the detail,
keeping them well clear of the forward hatch.
That was new. So was the man propped against the mainmast.
He'd been taken from another captive compartment two days earlier. Now a
blanket hung around his shoulders despite the morning sun, his face hollow
and slick with sweat. Harl crouched before him.
Corren shifted his end of the bundle. "He's worse."
There was little room to argue.
On the return trip, Tiber caught another glimpse of the examination. Harl
pulled down one of the man's eyelids, inspected his mouth, then pressed two
fingers beneath his jaw. The prisoner flinched, and Harl paused.
His fingers traveled along the side of the man's neck. He opened the
prisoner's shirt next and reached beneath one arm - the man cried out loudly
enough to turn even the sailor's head.
Harl withdrew his hand and examined the place that had caused the reaction.
From several paces away, Tiber could make out only a raised patch beneath the
prisoner's arm. The sailor motioned them onward.
By the time they crossed the deck again, Branik had joined Harl. The two
spoke too quietly to overhear. Branik looked from the sick man to the forward
hatch.
Harl went below. By their next trip, he hadn't returned.
"What's he looking for?" Corren murmured.
Tiber adjusted his grip on the sailcloth. "We'll know if he finds it."
They continued their work and carried the bundle aft.
Harl emerged before their final load, followed by Branik. Talven met them
near the mast.
"Well?"
"Two more."
Talven stilled. "Swellings?"
Harl nodded. "One at the neck. One beneath an arm."
"And the others?"
"Nothing I could find."
Talven regarded the man against the mast. "You've seen this with fever before."
"Yes."
"But?"
Harl closed his leather case. "He's worse than yesterday. So are two
others. They should be improving by now."
Talven was quiet for a moment. "What do you need?"
"Keep the sick together. Keep everyone else out unless they're needed. And
I want to examine anyone who develops a fever before they're moved."
"Anything else?"
Harl looked toward the forward hatch. "More room."
The sailor called for them to finish. Tiber and Corren took up the last
bundle. When the work was done, they were returned below. Neither spoke until
the hatch had closed behind the sailor.
Corren settled against the hull. "Two more."
Tiber looked toward the empty places along the beams.
Before noon, Harl came down to examine them All again.
This time, his fingers went beneath their jaws.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Sat Sep 26 17:47:43 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: What Doesn't Pass pt. 2
By midday, Branik had begun preparing another space for the sick. Tiber heard
much of the work from below: boots overhead, hammering somewhere forward,
Branik's voice carrying through the deck as restraints were fitted.
Other sounds had become familiar as well: Harl's name called from one
compartment or another. A bucket requested at an unusual hour. The occasional
retching that no longer drew complaints from those nearby.
The forward store was full.
Near dusk, Harl came through again. Three more prisoners had developed fevers
since morning. He examined each and sent two forward, leaving the third where
he was.
Corren waited until Harl and Branik had gone. "Why leave him?"
Tiber regarded the feverish man across the compartment. "Something's different."
The following morning, he and Corren were taken above again. Branik put
buckets and stiff-bristled brushes into their hands and pointed toward a
stretch of deck near the bow.
"Scrub."
The work brought them nearer the forward hatch than they'd been permitted the
previous day, though a sailor remained between them and it. Tiber had
finished half the assigned stretch when Harl emerged. The sick man from the
mainmast came with him.
He walked only because Branik supported most of his weight. The blanket was
gone, and his shirt hung open at the neck. What had been little more than a
raised patch beneath his arm the day before now bulged prominently beneath
the cloth. Another swelling distorted one side of his neck.
Corren stopped scrubbing.
"Keep at it," the sailor warned. Their brushes resumed moving.
Harl eased the man against the bulkhead where the morning light reached him
and examined the swelling at his neck. Even from several paces away, its
change was apparent. The skin had stretched taut and angry over it, darkening
near the center.
The prisoner recoiled when Harl touched its edge.
"Don't."
"I need to examine it."
The man clenched his jaw but didn't pull away again.
Harl inspected the swelling beneath his arm next, then sat back on his heels.
"Two others have them now. Smaller."
Branik looked toward the forward hatch.
Harl reached into his case for one of the packets he'd begun using the
previous day. He had barely loosened the cord when the prisoner lurched
forward.
Branik caught him before he struck the deck. The first convulsion brought up
little more than water. The second emptied what remained in his stomach. Harl
moved the leather case aside and steadied the man's head while Branik held him
upright.
Amid the thin mess on the planks were several dark red streaks.
Corren's brush had gone still again. This time, the sailor didn't correct
him.
The prisoner sagged against Branik, breathing through his mouth. Harl touched
two fingers to the man's neck, then bent nearer the vomit without touching
it. Branik followed his gaze.
"Blood?"
Harl rose and closed his case. "Get Talven. And Sarn."
Branik carefully transferred the prisoner's weight to Harl. "Both?"
"Both."
Branik strode off, heading for the quarterdeck. Tiber returned his attention
to the deck and resumed scrubbing. Beside him, Corren did the same.
Neither had been told to.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Sat Sep 26 17:53:43 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: What Doesn't Pass pt. 3
Sarn arrived before Branik had returned with Talven.
The captain crossed the deck without hurry. He stopped beside the sick man,
taking in the swellings at his neck and the stained planks.
"How bad?"
Harl adjusted his hold on the sick man. "Worse than I thought yesterday."
Sarn waited.
"The swellings are appearing on others. He's the first I've seen bring up blood."
Harl glanced toward the forward hatch. "And they're not recovering as they should."
Talven arrived with Branik and stopped beside Sarn.
"What do you need?"
"More room. Fewer people moving between compartments. And help keeping the
fever down while I still have enough to do it."
Sarn eyed the leather case. "How much?"
Harl opened it. The cloth packets Tiber had seen the previous day occupied
only one corner.
"Enough for ordinary sickness. Not enough for this many."
Sarn nodded toward Talven. "See what can be spared from the ship's stores."
"I've already started."
Sarn gave another curt nod.
Branik looked toward the forward hatch. "I'll need somewhere else before nightfall."
"Take the aft storage compartment."
Talven shook his head. "Carpenter's using half of it."
"Then he isn't anymore." That settled it.
Harl closed the case. "There's something else."
Sarn looked at him.
"Keeping them apart may slow this. It won't stop it."
The captain's eyes moved across the deck: sailors at the lines, prisoners at
work, men passing through the companionway, every task requiring one set of
hands to cross the path of another.
"Do what you can."
Harl yielded a tired nod.
Sarn turned to Talven. "Keep enough men fit to sail her."
"That's the intention."
"I know."
He left them to it.
By afternoon, the ship had changed again.
Work details were smaller. Sailors who had once entered the captive
compartments freely now remained at the hatches when they could. Food and
water passed through fewer hands. Branik moved constantly between the sick
and healthy, opening restraints, assigning work, and putting an end to
arguments before they became fights.
Harl's visits grew shorter.
He no longer asked everyone the same questions. He looked for fever first,
then felt beneath the jaw and arms. Those he found wanting were taken away.
One prisoner tried to hide his.
Tiber took notice - the man had spent most of the afternoon curled against
the hull despite the heat. When Harl entered, he straightened and insisted he
was well.
Harl touched his forehead.
The man caught his wrist. Branik was already moving.
"No," Harl said without raising his voice, and Branik stopped.
For several seconds, the prisoner kept hold of Harl's wrist. His eyes moved
toward the hatch, then toward the empty places along the beams.
"I said I'm well."
Harl looked down at the hand gripping him. "Then let me prove you right."
The man's grip loosened.
Harl examined beneath his jaw. His fingers paused. "Up."
The prisoner didn't move. Branik stepped closer, and this time he did.
Corren watched the man disappear through the hatch.
"They're afraid of going forward now."
Tiber looked toward the empty restraint he'd left behind.
"They know no one's coming back..."
That night, someone began vomiting in the darkness.
No one complained.
Writer: Aliera
Date Sat Sep 26 20:30:54 2026
Subject Probably good for you
There were, Aliera supposed, worse duties to be given. Mercerion's new
Akita had been left in her keeping, deposited by her Colonel as it snored
and before he had taken to go do errands.
One ear flicked now and again. A paw twitched once against the folds of her
clothing. Otherwise, he seemed perfectly content with his choice of bed and
entirely unconcerned that the bed in question happened to be the General of
the Shield. Aliera had made no effort to dislodge him.
Fenna noticed. "Oh, he left you with puppy duties. "
Aliera looked up from the small creature sprawled across her lap, a smile
touching her mouth. "Apparently. "
"S'probly good for you. "
That earned Fenna a more questioning glance. "Probably smart that your
puppy does not growl at your General as well, " Aliera answered instead, a
quiet chuckle following the words.
She looked back down. She did like him, she had decided. Quite a bit, in
fact. Perhaps that was why she did not immediately object when Fenna
clarified.
"I jus' mean so you sit an' take a minute to breathe. "
Aliera's hand stilled briefly against the puppy's fur and she glanced over
at her Squire. "That noticeable?"
Fenna shifted sideways upon the pew, resting her chin against her hand.
"Probly not to everyone. "
A soft chuckle escaped Aliera. "Likely not. " That should have been the
end of it. Instead, the words lingered. Her fingers resumed their slow
path between the puppy's ears while she considered them.
There was always something requiring her attention. Orders to give.
Patrols to consider. Pages and Squires to teach. Knights to oversee. The
duties of a General did not cease when those of a Cardinal began, nor did
either wait politely while she attended to the concerns of those who came to
her simply because they trusted that she would listen.
She had chosen every bit of it. More than that, she loved it. That did not
make it light. "Perhaps a bit of stress, " she conceded eventually.
Fenna's answer came easily. "Can't begin to imagine what'd be stressful
about bein' a General an' a Cardinal an' keepin' track of everyone in the
Keep better'n our moms ever had to. "
For a moment Aliera merely stared at her and then she laughed, a brighter
sound that escaped before she could temper it and she nodded. When it
faded, she looked back down at the sleeping Akita. "I would not have it any
other way. It is the greatest of honors to be able to serve in this way. "
"Doesn't mean it's not hard work. An' it doesn't mean you can't take a
break to slow down for an hour to be a puppy bed. "
There was very little argument to be made against that. Especially when the
puppy remained quite determined to enforce Fenna's decree. Aliera simply
nodded, perhaps to both points, and continued idly petting him. For once,
nothing demanded that she move. Or, at least, nothing that could not wait
until doing so no longer risked waking a sleeping puppy.
So the General of the Shield remained where she was.
After a while, she began to hum. Some little tune without much purpose to
it, her attention settled upon the Akita in her lap. Eventually she leaned
down, lowering her voice conspiratorially near one fuzzy ear. "I will have
to teach you to fetch apples and surprise him. " The puppy offered no
objection.
Aliera's smile deepened. "They are his favorite, you know. You should
learn these things if you will be with him more than he is here with us. "
Another slow scratch behind an ear.
The Akita slept through the beginning of his education. And for the better
part of an hour, the General remained successfully pinned beneath him.
Perhaps Fenna had been right, it was probably good for her.
Writer: Thasgerd
Date Mon Sep 28 04:08:33 2026
Subject Peace of Cake IV
"[gWae shoul' go chaeck tha' ou', yeahs? " Buttercup glanced out the
Observatory then back at Thasgerd then back to the entrance. "Yeahs, s'pose
wae shoul'. " Thasgerd rose from his chair and made his way out with
Buttercup to the outer wall.
The warhorse and General looked down over the wall and saw the page sprawled
out either on a well thought out and placed pile of hay or he was really
lucky. Thas really hoped it was the thought out plan and his breath let
out. "I wasn' look'n forwar' t' explain' tha' t' Aliera. " He moved to
check on the fledging mage below the wall.
A heavy gauntlet reached out an offered hand to the page, groaning the page
took it and was yanked out of the hay. The boy was growing it seemed, a
little awkward and gangly, the robes of a mage in training draped over his
frame that he dusted hay off. The mage looked up at the towering General
with wide eyes full of excitement. "Whoaaa! That was great! " The page
froze realizing Thasgerd was the one who lifted him out of his landing spot
and quickly saluted. Thas saluted back and did his best to hold in an
amused chuckle.
"Oi, lad. Ya's alrigh'? " Buttercup was looking the page over while Thas
was making sure the kid's brain wasn't rattled. "Though' was broken f' a
minu'e thaere. Do mae a 'uge fav'r, dinna scream like ya's fallin' t' ya's
death, yeahs? " Thas ran his armored fingers across his brow and sighed.
The page gave a quick nod and saluted, "Sir, yes Sir. It was fun! And
scary! "
Thas heard the words and took them to heart, "But ya's did i'. " He paused
and considered the page and asked, "Wha' ya's feel b'fore ya's jumped? "
The page hesitated in answering, seeming to feel awkward at the question but
he saw Thasgerd's face and it was softly waiting. "Well, it was scary. I
didn't want to then I wanted to. I tried once but you pulled me down, so I
waited and I almost didn't do it but I did! And right before I jumped,
everything was quiet. I could hear my heart in my ears, Sir! "
The thought of stillness and quiet, the thought of peace right before taking
that leap ran through Thas' mind. He often sought the quiet, the stillness
and peace from the day. Most times it was sought to quiet the voices in his
mind, the questions, the doubts, the tiredness in his head. He found that
peace the page felt once. Everything around him stilled, his focus on
nothing and everything at once. The body of Izha on the ground, the life
taken from his friend. He knew Mercerion was with him, Boof was knocked out
of the engagement by the imp who revealed it could grow to the size of three
giant ogres. He rose to his feet and raised his hammer at the imp, and all
he said was 'No'. All that mattered was that prickish imp was dropped.
Thas remembered hearing nothing but his breathing, being calm, Mercerion and
him giving All they had along with their warhorses. Charges, screams, metal
clanging as the paladins clashed against the massive imp. Grunts and groans
from being knocked off Buttercup, the pain of getting wrecked and blasted
with spells, Buttercup breathing hard as she charged forward and Thasgerd's
heavy lance finding the killing blow and driving it deep to bring the imp
down. All of this he remembered but he remembered feeling clear headed, the
feeling that if this was it, he hoped Mercerion would've ended the prick.
Thas snapped out of the thought that played in his head like a flash in a
pan. "Righ', jus' bae careful, an' if'n ya's hurt yasaelf, nah ya's dinna.
" He nodded and the boy saluted. Buttercup was situating the hay in the
pile and eyed the page for a moment then moved some hay over to another
spot.
Thas and Buttercup made it back to the Observatory and he sat down at the
table, seeming tired, "Ain' ever easaey 's i'? " He knew the answer,
Buttercup knew it too.
Writer: Geirhart
Date Mon Sep 28 12:52:09 2026
Subject The Risen Stone: The Pilgrimage Under the Sun
*Thump* *Thump*
*Thump* *Thump*
Geirhart's head lifted as he felt the pulses within his old frame. The
soulfire bond between him and the Sunstone reverberated in his chest.
Something was happening at the stone which called out to him.
A memory of words said nearly three years ago stirred within him. The last
time Geirhart spoke to the Augur of the Unyielding:
'The boon my brethren have given will awaken your stone, Sol'Canta. They
will meld with it, inhabit it, and it will be a living work of Light. Go
with the Father's Gift. Their souls will need time to awaken the stone's
potential once it is joined.
'It is time, at long last, It is time. The Augurs of Virtue and Steadfast
awaken. '
Leaving the Temple of the Eternal Flame, Geirhart stepped into the street
and calling upon a stone of power, opened a portal to Areth'va.
In the four years since Justice and Althainia had landed upon Areth'va, what
was once a deserted city now had life within it's streets. Some members of
Justice had stayed behind when the troops had left as had the Althainians
forming a small enclave around the ruins.
A guard dressed much like a Thalosian to protect himself from the heat
saluted him, 'Exe... Abbott, sir. It is good to see you. There is some
commotion down by the stone, Marshal Baruk has already gone to investigate
with Atalia. '
Geirhart smiled and nodded then turned down the eastern road towards the
Valley. The wind picked up blowing sand and dirt into his face. He barely
made out the robes of a druid from the Guardians of the Green heading in the
opposite direction. Shielding his eyes, he continued walking as he coughed
from the dust storm.
Coming to the rim of the valley, Geirhart stopped to get his balance. The
dust storm settled and his view became unobstructed. Before him, down
below, the Sunstone Valley sprawled out.
Writer: Geirhart
Date Mon Sep 28 13:40:50 2026
Subject The Risen Stone: The Pilgrimage Under the Sun ( II )
Where once there was only dust, rock, and tumbleweeds was now a lush
oasis in the basin of the Valley. Crystaline grasses swayed in the breeze
causing a rippling effect upon the eyes. Small animal life created trails
within the grasses and congregated within the pool that had been brought
forth from deep underground. Within the middle of the oasis was the
Sunstone, a monolith of quartz that spread a radiance out across the valley.
Geirhart looked out across is and leaned upon his staff. He thought about
the Wujen Elementalists who had helped with this project, the duids, the
soldiers, the grell hunters, and the players from the Harmonia Colorum. All
these people had sacrificed for this place and it was finally about to be
complete. Using his staff to assist him, he began the lengthy walk down
into the valley.
"Marhaba, Abbott. " greeted Baruk as he came to wrap his arms around the
old man. The old assassin had retired and made a life for himself as the
Marshal of the forces. He had met his wife, Atalia, here as well and
together they formed the leadership of the enclave's defense.
Atalia, grell huntress, walked over to Geirhart and took his hand in her
own. 'It wakens.. I have felt the stirrings, sir. '
Geirhart raised a fluffy eyebrow to regard Atalia. Her eyes met the ground
for a moment then met his own. Within those eyes he recognized something,
it looked like pain or loss but he could not be sure. Perhaps it was also
understanding and then he knew what he was looking at. Atalia had seen the
soulfire bond and in the echoes of that fading power she had connected with
the stone.
'My dear, you are correct. The Augers awaken and soon the Sunstone shall
complete it's metamorphosis. Soon the promise of what began four years ago
shall be complete. '
Baruk looked between the old man and his wife for a moment and decided it
was perhaps better to let this matter rest. The three turned to regard the
quartz monolith before them as the thrumming picked up again like a pulsing
heart.
'Oh and Baruk, some pilgrims shall be arriving over the next day or so to
complete our pilgrimage. Could you prepare some tents for their arrival,
please' asked the old priest.
'Of course, sir.. Wait.. Pilgrims? What pilgrimage? We don't get much
news here... ' stammered the Marshal.
'I shall appraise you this evening over dinner. It is time to celebrate the
closing of one chapter and the start of another. ' smiled Geirhart.
Writer: Symantha
Date Mon Sep 28 22:54:40 2026
Subject The Churn - Constrained
She awoke suddenly and with a grated sound of pain.
Her hand slid over her face, fingers gripping her temples, and she waited in
the darkness until the static white enveloping her vision slipped away.
Agonizing pain usually followed but that had apparently been reserved for
the dreaming.
An infinite ivory white room. Too much white, too much space. It was how
she had imagined it would feel like to be hollowed by Lightscale if you were
caught inside it. A jail cell.
Trapped in this space, the light had been overwhelming and the pain - though
it began as a low throbbing in her eyes - had expanded to become her world.
Her head pounded and as the moments slid by, she watched as white veining
began to replace the blue beneath her pale flesh.
Something in the way of furious pressure could be felt All around this empty
prison. Like a tide in a hurricane, waves as unrelenting as the light
itself. Whether for good or ill, she couldn't tell. There was nothing to
sense, nothing to feel, beyond the persistent pain.
She focused on the pressure beyond, beckoning it. Better the violence than
this slow, quiet death. That was when the static had enveloped her vision.
Now?
With a robe about her form, she stepped out on the balcony to immerse
herself in the cooling autumn breeze. The chill had only begun to turn the
trees, the grass, the flowers. She gave silent praise to the lengthening
nights and looking up, found the fullness of the Black Moon gazing down on
the lands below.
Its Shroud helped push the dream down but a restlessness remained. The same
restlessness that had become a bitter, deep sense of resentment. Anger,
irritability. These things coiled just beneath the surface. Impatience
and, finally, apathy wore away at the edges and her focus and drive suffered
for it.
She had known, had embraced, the understanding that her challenges would be
never-ending. The crucibles that had shaped her would never stop as long as
she was willing to carry her mantle, for the Godswar would be as eternal as
the Gods themselves.
She had dreamed too big. Looking back on legends and the lessons of history
had filled her head with hopes that were now long lost to time. The
champions and the relics of those ages were gone. Looking ahead, placing
determination in fate and hope, had instead clipped her wings.
Her hands slowly wrapped around the wrought iron of the balcony railing,
accepting the pain of the cold metal as it bit into her flesh.
It would be easy, she contemplated as the flames of rage licked around the
thought, to sit back and watch everyone allow the world to burn - because
they would.
Her soft laughter was baleful, full of a malice fed by years of mounting
frustrations and monstrous deeds. She lowered her gaze from the black moon,
cast its flatness over the view before her, and then slipped back inside.
Perhaps wine would improve her morale.
Writer: Karagor
Date Tue Sep 29 12:55:21 2026
Subject Rime of an Ogress Mariner ** Part 1
Dun. Rest. La-dun. Rest.
The beat of the drum sounded deep and calm while Karagor's senses drifted
over her surroundings, sedately taking in the sights and the sounds that
were independent of the grounding drumbeat. Azure sky above, lightly
streaked with a gauze of cotton white clouds. Murky blue water to the
right, lightening to cold cobalt tones to the left as the ocean approached
the shore. Rocky shoals and bleak sand carelessly ascending to grey cliffs
and heather-strewn foothills leading out of sight.
Dun. Rest. La-dun. Rest.
The steady meter sounded consistently from the drum while she filled her
lungs with the scent of ocean brine and seasoned wood. The distinct tang of
the brine shed by bodies laboring beneath hot sun and warm moon was
impossible to miss and was strong enough to partially overpower the lesser
scents of old leather, hemp ropes, pickled fish, really bad eggs, crude
spirits and ill-spent Humours.
Dun. Rest. La-dun. Rest.
The drum beat without fail. Its resonance matched the natural rhythms of
focused breath and calm pulse. Clear and firm, the unceasing drumbeat was
not loud enough to drown out the other sounds of the voyage. She could
still hear an albatross' wayward call, a phlegmatic groan of an oarsman too
long at his station, and the lap of water against the hull in counterpoint
to the feathering of the oars. A bilious cough came from the ailing
coxswain along with the momentary flutter and luffing of the single sail in
the uncertain wind. The distant resonance of thunder from some storm not
yet visible on the horizon heralded the next drum beat.
Dun. Rest. La-dun. Rest.
In addition to the drumming, these sights and scents and sounds defined
Karagor's world as she sat midship, straddling the gangway of the galley on
which she served.
Before her sat the three drums she used to deliver the rhythmic beats that
guided the diligent rowers of the bireme. At present, she held a
well-padded mallet in one hand which she employed with calm poise on the
largest and central drum to count out the metered cadence of their steady
rowing.
The traditional pattern matched each dip and stroke to the frequency of a
resting heartbeat, but Karagor's drumming was more nuanced than the rote.
With the first thump of mallet upon the drumhead, the oars of the lowest row
sank and pulled. With the echoed eighth note that mirrored the staggered
dual-beat of a human heart, the first bank of rowers feathered and lifted
their oars while the second bank on the higher platform dipped their oars in
fair synchronicity and pulled through the following rest note, creating
space for the first bank of rowers to reposition their oars for the next
stroke.
A deep breath. A firm strain. An even pulse. A priming release.
Over and over the pattern replayed. Karagor tapped out the notes over the
careful time signature. The oars rose and fell and the world slipped around
the smoothly sailing bireme and past the flat silver eyes of the ogress who
sat midship and counted off the repeating drum beats.
It was their second day at sea with one more before them and another voyage
immediately after. The swift galley with its seasoned crew could have made
the voyage in half the time had time been of the essence. The crew numbered
enough for a third shift to relieve one row of oarsmen which granted the
opportunity for a staggered cycle of rest that allowed for continuous rowing
and even the newest rowers were well-conditioned to row at double, even
triple, speed for hours.
But everyone had limits and hastened voyages required more time at rest in
port to recover or worse- time wasted drifting in open water while the
rowers slept slumped on their benches or sprawled in the cramped crew spaces
between the hull and the hold or along the raised gangway.
Luckily, their captain was usually mindful of the well-being of the crew.
Even those who were indentured and did not serve a willing contract were
commodities with a value that could be diminished by injudicious strain and,
if he lacked any other redeeming personality trait, their captain did
possess a keen mercantile mind.
Writer: Karagor
Date Tue Sep 29 13:05:04 2026
Subject Rime of an Ogress Mariner ** Part 2
Always mindful of an opportunity for profit, his galley plied the cold
northern waterways and coastlines ferrying cargo of often modest value to
places where it had become scarce enough to warrant the journey. On rare
occasions, they transported local dignitaries or served as a guard for small
ports troubled by ragtag pillagers who could be dissuaded by any apparent
show of force. Anything that might earn a larger portion of coin than the
apparent cost or risk was seized by their captain with gusto- which made
their current voyage a little odd to Karagor.
When they first feathered their oars, the captain had outlined their course
to the coxswain, his two favored deckhands who oversaw the banks of rowers
as officers- or enforcers depending on one's perspective, and to Karagor as
well. The galley lacked the formal ranks of a military vessel. The chain
of command consisted of two links: the captain and those who served at his
pleasure. But informally, and likely more for personal ease than a desire
to support a clear command structure, the coxswain was the second officer
and the deck enforcers wielded authority over the crew.
By virtue of her position of hortator, Karagor could be considered a junior
grade petty officer or perhaps just a midshipman. Charged with controlling
the speed of the voyage and the fine maneuvering by oars distinct from the
transom-mounted rudder, Karagor did need to understand the desired course
and any expectations for the voyage and she leveraged that as much as she
could to stay informed about the ship's business- even if she didnt strictly
need to to know.
She wouldn't easily admit it, but the truth was that she was just a little
bit nosy. She could excuse herself for eavesdropping since the galley
wasn't really that large and even whispers carried easily over water. It
also just seemed smart to keep up with the mood and disposition of the crew!
Conditions at sea weren't exactly friendly and a few sour words could easily
get out of hand.
But really, she just enjoyed hearing people's thoughts and details of their
lives- especially with how few people she had known in her youth and how
small her world had seemed for so long. Luckily for her, few men were
willing to exclude someone more than twice their height and several times
their weight when she unsubtly leaned in to listen. Even though it rarely
worked out in her favor, her inquisitiveness wasn't simply limited to what
she might overhear which was how she knew for certain that this voyage was
unusual.
The timing was the first oddity. The season of harvest was approaching, but
none of their destinations would take advantage of the influx of cheap
foodstuffs or the need for tools and trade supplies. Stranger still, they
had spent the first day rowing with a single row of oars in almost desultory
fashion. After a shallow mooring overnight, they now rowed with both banks
of oars but at a speed that could be maintained for days if needed. It was
like their captain was trying to ensure they arrived at an overly specific
time without any real need to do so.
Their sparse cargo was even more unusual: a couple dozen waxed sacks of alum
meant for the tanneries of Glymrest and several barrels of molasses for the
brewery on Kel Point. Karagor had learned not to underestimate her
captain's canny sense for a profit, but these wares were clearly speculative
ventures to sell staples at the season's lull and were too few besides to
merit the journey. They certainly weren't time sensitive or subject to
spoilage.
But that wasn't their only cargo. She could hardly have missed the
captain's painfully obvious attempt to covertly bring a large coffer aboard
with the other cargo or his careful securing of the brass-bound chest with
his personal effects. Finding an opportunity to peek inside the container
had been almost as difficult as working the tiny clasps with ogrish fingers
that were not intended for such delicate work. Instead of being rewarded,
her curiosity had only grown more intense when lifting the lid revealed the
coffer's perplexing contents.
Writer: Karagor
Date Tue Sep 29 13:19:46 2026
Subject Rime of an Ogress Mariner ** Part 3
Inside the coffer were three leaded glass jars capped with brass cones
that were All interconnected by filaments of some silvery metal she didn't
know. Those silver filaments threaded together and through each end of the
brass caps and spiraled around the interior of each jar. Curiouser still
was the object contained in each jar: a shining white chunk of stone, a
luridly pulsing red rock, and a darkly shimmering black stone shard. Each
piece occupied its own jar and was roughly the size of a human's palm.
Only after she had cautiously closed the coffer's lid and tucked it back
into its hiding place had Karagor realized that those glowing stones were
shards of the moons! What their significance was, she couldn't even guess
and so she had simply set the knowledge aside and gone on with her duties
and time had passed in the fitful manner of any other sea voyage.
Now, well into the second day of their journey, the monotony had supplanted
mindfulness with a restive sedation. Like the wake that streamed behind the
narrow hull of the galley, time fled, not uncounted, but carefully marked by
the metered taps of Karagor's drumming. With the silence of the crew and
the calm of the warm day, it was easy to fall into a meditative state where
the rigidly repetitive movements fell into the background of her awareness
and muscle memory maintained the routine while her thoughts listlessly
drifted the lanes of memory and imagination.
Distantly, she heard the captain emerge from his cabin and speak in hushed
tones with the coxswain. In truth, his cabin was little more than a
ramshackle hutch nestled against the stern beside the coxswain's post at the
rudder. Even though it was so narrow that Karagor couldn't wedge her
shoulders into it, the captain still managed to sleep inside the crude
shelter while also keeping his charts and personal effects dry- including
the brass-bound coffer.
After their mumbled conversation concluded, relative silence once again
reigned and her thoughts drifted, scarcely registering the lap of waves and
feathering of oars, the creak of the lines and the snap of the erratically
luffing sail.
Was the shore growing closer?
It took a while for that almost subconscious observation to consciously
register on her thoughts, the lethargy of the sedate routine resisting the
return of her focus. Yes, she realized with surprise that banished the
resisting sluggishness from her mind. The shore was definitely getting
closer- close enough for the resistance between the rising tide and the
currents of the open water to be felt working against the hulls and the
oars.
With a growing frown creasing her brow and tugging her lips down, Karagor
began to shift to glance back at the coxswain to learn what had made him
turn the rudder enough to so drastically alter their course. But she never
made it All the way through the movement. A call from the fore brought her
flat silver eyes swinging forward and a quiver of uncertainty to her lips.
"Black sail ahead! "
A quick sweep of the craggy, heather-studded coastline gave proof to the
call. Emerging from a yet-hidden cove in the rocky shoals beneath the slate
hills was a bireme similar to their own- save that its single mainsail was
crudely dyed black with a few jagged red marks decorating it. Even when the
wind fully caught the sail, Karagor wasn't able to recognize the design but
the vessel's sudden appearance, the turn of its prow in a clear intercept
course, and the simple fact of the black sail made its intent unmistakable.
They were under attack!
"Quarter sail! Ready speed! " came the call from behind Karagor. While
the sail was drawn in, Karagor adjusted her routine. Shifting from single
strikes on the central drum, she picked up a second mallet and began
counting out the tempo on the two drums that sat to either side of it. With
thinner seal skin heads and shallower bodies, their percussive notes were
sharper and higher for cutting through the wind and the protest of wood
against the waves.
The mallets came down with uniform precision- Dun. Dun. Dun. Dun.
For now, both drums were struck at the same time with the same force. When
the time came for sudden turns or other maneuvers, the separate drums would
be used for distinct, separate tempos, one side directing the rowers on that
side while the other side directed those one its side.
Writer: Karagor
Date Tue Sep 29 13:31:00 2026
Subject Rime of an Ogress Mariner ** Part 4
The wind was against them, blowing ashore from a mild forward angle,
which allowed the aggressive galley to fill its sail and speed its progress
while the twinned banks of oars rose and fell with growing haste. With the
surprise of the other galley's appearance from the sheltered cove and the
wind trying to nudge their own ship further ashore, there was little chance
for escape without risking a broadside ram and even less time for a
decision.
"Battle speed! Port rake! " came the firm call from the helmsman.
The deck shifted underneath Karagor, bucking against the current and the
wind as the helmsman steered them sharply toward open water, seemingly
opening them up for being rammed. Trusting in the command, Karagor changed
the tempo of her drumming and the oarsmen- with no real choice- trusted in
her drumming and the orders.
Da-dun. Da-dun. Da-dun. Da-dun.
Arms and shoulders bare to the sun, torsos and limbs hardened by years of
labor, the galley's crew worked the oars with regimented ferocity while the
attacking bireme knifed through the choppy waters, growing perilously closer
with every breath.
Da-dun. Da-dun. Da-dun. Da-dun.
Moments before a collision seemed unavoidable, the helmsman shouted the
signal and Karagor shifted her drumming. Her left hand trilled rapidly in
an almost frantic roll before cutting off All tapping with a sudden slap of
the bottom of her hand against the drum head. In response, both banks of
oars on the left side cut sharply into the water and then raised to the full
height allowed by their gunwales.
Her right hand held true to the battle speed beat, da-dun. Da-dun. Da-dun.
Da-dun, instructing the oars on the right side to continue rowing at their
rapid rate. Moments before the collision seemed unavoidable, the coxswain
cagily shifted the rudder, bringing a sharp and abrupt turn to the left.
The galley responded to the maneuvering and its prow swiftly shifted so that
instead of taking a broadside ram they would skim along the side of the
other ship at a narrow angle. The turn meant they also stopped fighting the
current and the wind which granted them a sudden burst of speed and caused
their galley to shoot forward and close the small gap between them and the
encroaching vessel, giving them no time to adapt.
Wood scraped and crunched as the two biremes impacted, their prows skimming
without sustaining a true collision. More, sharper cracks split the air.
Unprepared for the sudden change in course and position, the oars on the
attacker's port had still been lowered in the process of rowing hard with
the intent to ram and so when Karagor's ship scraped and skidded along its
side, those oars had been caught between the two hulls and had snapped and
shattered!
The risky maneuver barely allowed time to see the astonished and infuriated
expressions on the faces of the attacking crew before her own vessel shot by
them. The sudden lopsided propulsion left their foe temporarily at the
mercy of tide and wind and the loss of half of their oars made further
pursuit impractical if not impossible. But even before Karagor had lowered
her left mallet back to the drum to give the trill that would lower the oars
and resume their escape, three simultaneous shouts came from fore and aft.
"Black sails seaward! " "Trim sail. Hard starboard! " "Belay! Cut sail.
Bank oars!"
The first shout had come from the starboard enforcer who had advanced to the
prow and was even then gesturing frantically ahead where an ominous sight
loomed. A huge trireme was swiftly approaching! Its two square sails were
not only full of wind, but were also black and painted with jagged red marks
that matched the first attacking ship's sail.
How they had gotten so close without being seen didn't seem nearly so
important in that moment as the fact that the much larger vessel had
obviously been outfitted for war with a pair of raised decks above the
enclosed main deck that protected the three rows of oarsmen unlike the
bireme with its central gangway that left the tiered benches of rowers below
mostly exposed. The approaching vessel's deck seemed to bristle with armed
men with swords raised and grapples already spinning on their tethers!
The second shout had come from the coxswain with the expected order that
should have taken them out to sea and presumably out of danger. But it was
the third shout that brought true fear and uncertainty to the crew. It had
come from the captain, but it made no sense! It sounded like he was intent
on surrendering!
Writer: Karagor
Date Tue Sep 29 13:39:03 2026
Subject Rime of an Ogress Mariner ** Part 5
In the wake of those shouts an argument broke out between the captain and
the astonished helmsman and confusion broke out across the galley. Even
though Karagor followed the first order, using her drums to signal the
return of the port oars with corresponding half strokes on the right to
hasten the turn out to sea, the crew failed to respond with the precision
that normally allowed the galley to move effectively.
A few oars rose when they should have dipped and were fouled by the second
row's next strokes. More oars remained motionless in the air or stalled the
ship's momentum by remaining in the water. In the space of a few breaths,
the bireme was basically dead in the water at the whim of the tide.
The argument between the captain and the helmsman was growing louder by the
moment. The crew's unease was rapidly escalating to panic. A scuffle broke
out as one of the enforcers tried to lash the oarsmen back into action
contrary to the captain's orders while the other enforcer added his
querulous concerns to the ongoing argument. All the while, the trireme drew
closer, cutting through the water fast enough for its ram to briefly crest
the waves in a lethal promise.
Hearing the meaty thud of a fist impacting a stomach and the thump of a body
dropping to the deck, Karagor set the mallets down on the drums almost
delicately and rose to her feet.
It didn't make sense. None of it! Why would pirates bother with a simple
trade galley? Why had they gone so close to the shore? Why was the captain
ordering surrender?
A meager supply of alum and molasses was only worth the predicted demand of
their destinations and was hardly the sort of plunder that would interest
even a small crew of raiders. Even if sold for an outlandish profit at
sword-point, the meager cargo wasn't worth dedicating two ships to an attack
on a galley that was known to be decently armed. Was that the point? Was
it revenge for turning away other raiders?
Suddenly, it All fell into place. Karagor remembered hearing the captain
redirect their course inland earlier. Now there was his strange decision to
give up without at least trying to evade. The final nail was that he was
even then waving a red scarf at the onrushing trireme in some attempt to
signal to his co-conspirators. All the while, he clutched a coffer under
his other arm- the coffer that contained that strange apparatus of moon
shards!
Her eyes shifted from her captain to the onrushing trireme and the
aggressive posture of its crew. The brief moment's survey clearly revealed
to Karagor that whatever deal her captain had struck wasn't going to be
honored. There wasn't going to be any bloodless boarding and staged theft
that the captain could use to pass the blame and to divert the ire of
whomever had paid him to transport that coffer and its arcane contents.
Reaching under the gangway, Karagor pulled the canvas-wrapped length of her
spiral bladed zweihander from its rack. She felt the galley rock beneath
her as she began to step forward. The galley she had now served on for
months had been modified with a lattice of crossbeams to balance the mass of
its unusual ogress crewmember and as long as she stayed to the central
gangway, the displacement generally balanced her cautious, but hardly soft,
steps.
But now, between the wind and the push of the tide toward the shore and
half-hearted rowing that was more at cross purposes than accomplishing any
real movement, the bireme was rocking unsteadily. Worse still, they were
now pointed almost directly at the approaching vessel which, thanks to the
wind and their own overzealous drummer, had gathered too much speed to
easily change course.
Rather than taking a broadside, it seemed likely that the rams of both ships
were going to collide with a force that would almost certainly rupture both
hulls- although the smaller bireme would still take the worst of it and be
crippled and swamped if not outright sunk. The chance of mutual harm, and
maybe even destruction, seemed even more likely when the current continued
to push the floundering bireme into the hastily corrected trajectory the
pirate vessel was attempting.
Writer: Karagor
Date Tue Sep 29 13:47:00 2026
Subject Rime of an Ogress Mariner ** Part 6
Seeing no good option and only worse ones if she waited, Karagor started
to run. The gangway creaked alarming underneath her for the few strides she
was able to take before her long legs took her the length of the ship.
She thought she heard the captain cry out something to halt her, but it was
too late. One bare foot came down on the rail and her next step was a
desperate leap over open water. She could have timed it better, but she
managed to clear the rail of the trireme with room to spare at about the
same time the thunderous boom of metal ram on metal ram burst through the
water and the horrible crunch of beams cracking and planks being smashed to
splinters deafened her!
So when she landed undaintily on the trireme's deck, she felt more than
heard the boards give way beneath her, the deck shattering and dropping her
into the hold to land with even less grace! In that moment, she truly
appreciated the special adaptations that had been made to the galley she
served on to accommodate such an unusual and large crew member. In the next
moment, she felt belated thankfulness for the proper maintenance and
construction of the bireme when she felt even more boards break and give way
under her landing.
Possibly weakened by the impact of the two rams and the prows slamming
together after that or maybe just shoddily built and badly maintained, the
planks of the hull had certainly never been intended to have an ogre drop on
them. They fractured under her, her right foot breaching a join between two
planks and plunging into the water below and her left foot cracking even
more boards.
The instant her weight mostly settled, the ship pitched forward, its prow
dipping precipitously toward the water which made the stern lift, sending
crew and supplies lurching and skidding. For a heart-skipping instant, the
ship seemed to teeter on the brink of assured doom while Karagor frantically
tried to brace herself by grabbing the ribbing beams. Thankfully, the
boat's displacement won over against the unexpected addition of an ogre's
worth of ballast and righted itself, the stern slapping back into the water
with enough force to topple the crew in groaning, cursing heaps.
With her right leg still caught between broken boards, Karagor dropped to
her left knee, painfully wrenching her caught leg while her right shoulder
bruisingly slammed into the hull. Keenly aware of time being against her,
Karagor imagined grains of sand rushing through an hourglass, their mounting
weight as likely to bury her as the waves were likely to drag her down with
either ship if the conflict wasn't settled quickly and the damage wasn't
patched enough to reach the shore.
Biting her lower lip against the pain, she gathered her will and directed
her body into action. Cold water continued to gush into the hold as she
managed to yank her foot free, jagged wood leaving bloody tears and dozens
of slivers in her pale skin. More water was seeping in from the surrounding
boards that had cracked under her landing and even more was flowing from the
recessed curve of the prow where the ram was mounted, hinting that the
severe impact had cracked the hull there too! So far, none of it was beyond
what caulking with tar and some hasty carpentry could handle. That could at
least serve until reaching a port for proper repairs.
Writer: Karagor
Date Tue Sep 29 13:55:34 2026
Subject Rime of an Ogress Mariner ** Part 7, Finale
A sudden chorus of shouts, a few pained screams, and another
wood-crunching impact cut through Karagor's thoughts and a true torrent of
water rushing into the hold dashed her hopes of salvaging the encounter.
Looking up at the hole she had created in the deck just above her head, she
could see armed men grappling while the ship lurched beneath her.
"A good day for a swim, I hope, " she observed to no one in particular
drawing a few puzzled looks from the nearby rowers who were only then
beginning to untangle from one another.
With a little shrug, she tensed her legs and jumped straight up, shoulders
breaking through already-shattered boards above her, and scrabbled onto the
now-listing deck. A quick glance around was enough to see how badly the
situation had devolved and to confirm her grim assumption. Her galley was
swamped and sinking. Its prow was snarled with the trireme's and was
dragging it down with it as a final, pyrrhic revenge.
A moment of melancholy tugged at her heart for the loss of what had been a
significant part of her recent life. She couldn't even distinguish the
faces of anyone she had considered a friend in the roiling mass of men
fighting or panicking as their mortality closed in on them as surely as the
unforgiving ocean.
Seeing no other option and finding no value in actually fighting anyone in
such a pointless waste of life, she turned and stepped to the rail in a
single stride. A deep breath, a focused leap, and she was flying free
through the air to dive cleanly into the water, her folded hands and
practiced form causing far less of a disruption to the waves than her frame
should have.
Following the arc of momentum from the dive that carried her far from the
doomed vessels, she began to stroke toward the surface in the direction of
the shore. But a lingering thought tugged her lips into a frown around her
small tusks causing little bubbles of air streaming around them as she
ascended. What had happened to the coffer containing that strange of
apparatus of moon rocks that had caused All of this?
Writer: Tiberius
Date Tue Sep 29 17:18:31 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Empty Places pt. 1
Two days later, Branik began moving the healthy.
The aft storage compartment had filled by the following day. By that evening,
the hammering began again, this time somewhere below. Tiber heard restraints
being fitted between the usual sounds of sickness and the boots passing
overhead.
The next morning, shortly after breakfast, Branik arrived with three sailors
and began unlocking restraints.
"Where are we going?" Corren asked.
"Nowhere."
Branik pointed toward the opposite row. "Move down. Make room."
The prisoners obeyed with varying degrees of complaint. Tiber and Corren
shifted two places toward the stern while one of the sailors opened several
empty restraints in the space they'd left behind.
Corren settled beside him. "We're receiving guests."
"Apparently."
"Should we tidy up?"
Tiber feigned perusal of the compartment, a faint smirk playing at the corner
of his mouth. "I wouldn't know where to begin."
Boots sounded on the companionway before Corren could answer, and six
prisoners descended under guard.
Among them were two human men somewhere near Tiber's age, both broad through
the shoulders and fairer than most aboard. One wore his beard thick and
short, its color somewhere between brown and red. The other's was lighter and
less disciplined, though several weeks aboard the ship had done neither man
favors.
The resemblance suggested kinship. So did the way they kept track of one
another as Branik began assigning places. Both adjusted easily to the roll
beneath their feet, watching the crew rather than the deck.
Branik directed the elder-looking man toward an iron ring beside Tiber. He
stopped there, but his attention remained on the other man two places farther
down. "We sit together."
His accent was heavy enough that Tiber needed the moment between words to
make sense of them.
Branik didn't. "You sit where I put you."
The younger man muttered something Tiber couldn't catch. His companion turned
his head. "Sten."
The warning was enough.
Branik looked between them. "Problem?"
Sten smiled. "None worth havin'." His accent carried the same northern
weight, though Tiber found it easier to follow.
Branik fastened him to the beam, then returned to the other man, who offered
his wrists without being told. "Torsten Einharsson."
Branik paused. "Didn't ask."
"Ye were about to."
"No."
Torsten gave a single nod. "Fair enough."
Corren waited until Branik moved to the next prisoner. "I like him."
"You've heard him say eight words."
"Nine, I think."
Beside Tiber, Torsten's mouth twitched beneath his beard.
Sten leaned far enough around the prisoner between them to join the exchange.
"He gets worse wi' familiarity."
Torsten looked past Tiber toward his brother. "And ye improve?"
"I've nowhere t'go but up."
Corren leaned forward to see around Tiber. "I may like both of you."
Tiber shifted aside to give him an unobstructed view. "Try to contain yourself."
Branik finished securing the newcomers.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Tue Sep 29 17:23:32 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Empty Places pt. 2
Empty places remained, but fewer than before. Men who had spent days
separated by several lengths of chain now sat nearly shoulder to shoulder.
There was barely room to stretch their legs without reaching the next man's
space.
One of the other newcomers surveyed the remaining empty restraints.
"All of them sick?"
Branik checked the final restraint and stood. "Sick go forward. Everyone
else stays here unless you're working."
The prisoner looked toward the hatch. "How many are sick?"
That stopped him. For a moment, Tiber thought he might answer, but Branik
only surveyed the crowded rows.
"Enough."
He climbed the companionway with the sailors behind him. No one spoke until
the hatch closed.
Sten tested the reach of his chain and surveyed the men packed along the
beams. "Cozy."
Corren gave him a tired smile. "You should have seen it before everyone started dying."
Sten's smile disappeared.
Torsten's attention settled on the empty restraints that remained. "How many?"
Corren didn't answer this time. Neither did Tiber.
Branik returned for them before midday. This time, he unlocked four
restraints.
Tiber and Corren rose without prompting. Torsten did the same when Branik
reached him, but Sten looked from the open restraint to his brother.
"That didn't take long."
"What didn't?"
"Promotion."
Corren looked at Tiber. "Competition."
Branik handed him a coil of rope. "Congratulations. You're both employed."
They followed him above, and the cold struck Tiber before the light did. It
had been building for days, easy enough to ignore beneath the deck or while
working under the afternoon sun. There was no ignoring it now. Wind came hard
across the port rail, carrying spray that stung his face and left his shirt
damp against his skin.
Corren hunched his shoulders. "I preferred the desert."
"You complained about the desert."
"I preferred complaining about the desert."
Two sailors waited near the mainmast beside several coils of line. Tiber
recognized one of them. The other was unfamiliar.
That was becoming common. Pell had not returned to duty, and several other
faces Tiber had grown accustomed to seeing during the morning watch were
missing as well. Their absence had been less obvious below - on deck, the
gaps were harder to miss.
Prisoners occupied some of them. Two hauled a cask toward the stern under a
sailor's direction. Another pair carried folded canvas across the deck. Near
the bow, a man Tiber recognized from another captive compartment worked a
line beside three members of the crew. No one sat near the mainmast anymore.
Branik pointed toward the waiting sailors. "Do what they tell you."
One of them tossed the end of a line toward Tiber. "You know how to handle that?"
"Enough."
The sailor looked toward Corren. "Less than him."
His attention moved to the brothers. Torsten had already taken up another
line. He ran it once through his hands, glanced toward where it disappeared
above, then toward the sail it controlled.
"You've done this before."
"Aye."
"Merchant?"
Sten smirked. "Sometimes." Torsten looked at him.
"...What? We moved merchandise."
The sailor stared between them before deciding he didn't care. He pointed
toward the line in Torsten's hands. "When I tell you. Not before."
Torsten nodded, and the work began.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Tue Sep 29 17:25:37 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Empty Places pt. 3
Torsten fell into the rhythm almost immediately. Sten needed one correction
before doing the same. Neither asked what the line controlled or where to
stand when the sail shifted overhead.
Corren noticed too. "Merchants."
Sten pulled beside him. "Very successful ones."
"Captured by slavers."
"Temporary setback."
Torsten hauled on the line. "Less talking."
"He's distractin' me."
Corren stared at him. "I'm standing over here."
"Very distractin'." The sailor cut off whatever rebuttal Corren might
have made with an order to haul, and four sets of hands returned to the line.
For the next hour, there was little opportunity to speak. The work shifted
from one task to another as quickly as the crew could find hands for it,
hauling and securing lines one moment and moving canvas the next. Tiber and
Corren carried water once, though this time the buckets went to sailors
working the deck rather than prisoners below.
Branik crossed their path three times. The first, he was escorting two
prisoners toward the bow. The second, he carried a bucket and a stack of
folded cloths. The third, Harl was with him.
Tiber almost failed to recognize the medic from a distance. Harl's sleeves
were rolled above his elbows, and a dark stain marked one side of his shirt.
The leather case hung from his hand. He stopped beside one of the sailors
near the rail and gave him the same hurried examination Tiber had watched him
perform below: forehead, jaw, beneath one arm.
The sailor said something Tiber couldn't hear. Harl answered, and the man
shook his head. Branik stepped closer.
After a moment, the sailor surrendered the line he had been holding to
another man and followed them below. No one took his place. The remaining
sailors divided his work between them.
Talven appeared shortly afterward and changed that. He moved through the deck
assigning men with little discussion, shifting one sailor from the bow and
sending two prisoners to replace him. When he reached Tiber's group, his
attention settled on Torsten. "You know ships?"
"Enough."
"How much is enough?"
Torsten glanced toward Sten. "Enough that we're still alive after years o'
makin' poor decisions near water."
"Some of those decisions were excellent."
Talven ignored him. "You stay on deck. Both of you."
Sten's eyebrows rose. "See? Promotion."
Talven had already moved on. Corren watched him go. "I'm beginning to feel overlooked."
"Perhaps you need more experience making poor decisions near water."
"I've spent several weeks chained inside a ship."
Tiber considered that. "Fair point."
The sailor supervising them called for the line again, and All four returned
to work.
Talven kept the brothers on deck when Tiber and Corren were finally sent
below. They were still there when Branik came for the pair again late that
afternoon, this time to move provisions from one of the stores. By then, Sten
was working near the bow while Torsten helped two sailors secure loose canvas
along the port side.
Corren noticed them as they crossed the deck. "They really have been promoted."
"Try not to take it personally."
"Too late."
Writer: Tiberius
Date Tue Sep 29 17:27:25 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Empty Places pt. 4
The wind had strengthened since morning. Tiber lowered his head against it as
they followed Branik toward the stern. Sailors who had worked in shirtsleeves
only days earlier now wore coats or whatever heavier layers they possessed.
One had wrapped cloth around his ears beneath his cap.
The sea had changed as well. Its color had deepened beneath the pale sky, and
every burst of spray seemed to hold the cold longer after it struck. Tiber
wiped water from his face and found his fingers stiffening before they
reached the hatch.
Behind him, Sten swore loudly enough to draw Tiber's attention. The younger
brother stood near the rail, staring out across the water, with Torsten beside
him doing the same.
"Problem?" the sailor beside them asked.
Sten rubbed both hands over his arms. "I'd forgotten how much I hate northern water."
Torsten snorted. "Ye've forgotten every winter ye ever lived through by
the time summer ends."
"That's how I survive them."
Branik called for Tiber and Corren to keep moving.
They spent the better part of the next hour carrying sacks from the store to
the galley. The cook had one prisoner helping him already, a thin man Tiber
had seen several times below but never spoken to. Another stood over a bucket
peeling vegetables with a small knife while a sailor watched from the
doorway.
On their third trip, Tiber realized the sailor had disappeared. The prisoner
still had the knife.
Branik noticed too. He stopped long enough to take it from the man's hand and
set it beside the cook. "Carry those." He pointed toward a stack of empty
bowls near the worktable.
The prisoner looked from the half-peeled vegetable to the bowls. "And this?"
"Cook can finish it." Branik was already moving.
Corren waited until they were outside. "I think management is deteriorating."
Tiber adjusted the sack against his shoulder. "You should file a complaint."
"With whom?"
"Branik seems receptive." Tiber cocked half a smirk.
Corren looked back through the doorway. "I'll endure."
They made another trip. No sailor had appeared by the time they returned.
By the time the last sack had been moved, the light was fading and the cold
had followed it down. Branik sent them toward the companionway, but a shout
from above stopped him before they reached it.
Talven stood near the mainmast with Torsten beside him. Sten was several
paces away, helping a sailor coil line. "Branik."
The half-ogre looked over. Talven pointed toward the brothers.
"Keep these two available tomorrow."
Branik's expression suggested another demand was the last thing he needed.
"For what?"
"They know ships."
"So do my sailors."
Talven looked toward the forward hatch. Branik followed his gaze, and neither
man spoke for a moment. "Fine."
Talven gave a short nod and returned to the mainmast.
Sten joined them as Branik began gathering the prisoners for the trip below.
"I'm startin' to think they like us."
Torsten held out his wrists for the restraint. "That's never ended well."
Corren smiled. "You may fit in here after all."
Branik closed the iron around Torsten's wrist. "Don't encourage them."
For the first time that day, Torsten laughed.
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